FAITH. SECURELY cabined in the ship below, Through darkness and through storm I cross the sea, A pathless wilderness of waves to me: But yet I do not fear, because I know That he who guides the good ship o'er that waste Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. Blindfold I walk this life's bewildering maze, Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain-pass, Through thornset barren and through deep morass; But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways, And bare my head unshrinking to the blast, Because my Father's arm is round me cast; And, if the way seems rough, I only clasp The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp. LOVE. Go forth in life, oh friend! not seeking love,-— Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait, THE LAKE AND STAR. THE mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills, Though boundless distance must divide them far; Amid the shadows that above me roll; Thus from thy distant sphere thou shin'st on me, Thus does thine image float upon my soul, Through the wide space that must our lives dissever Far as the lake and star, ah me, for ever! BONES IN THE DESERT. WHERE pilgrims seek the Prophet's tomb Far up to the horizon's verge The traveller sees it rise- Across it tempest and simoom The desert-sands have strewed, For, while along that burning track There the tired camel lays him down, And there the fiery rider droops, They fall unheeded from the ranks: As thus I read the mournful tale I thought how like the march of life For every heart hath some fair dream, And far off in the distance lies But beauty, manhood, love, and power, And longing eyes and outstretched arms The mighty caravan of life Above their dust may sweep; Nor shout nor trampling feet shall break Oh fountains that I have not reached, When shall I quench my spirit's thirst Oh Mecca of my lifelong dreams, In that far distance pierced by hope, The shadows lengthen toward the east And the pilgrim, as ye still recede, Sighs for the journey done! E. SPENCER MILLER. [Born in 1817. A barrister, and author of a volume of poems, Caprices, published anonymously in 1849]. THE WIND. I STIR the pulses of the mind, It fans my face, it fans the tree, Upon my chilly brow it plays, Away, away-by wood and plain, Away,-again away, it roams, By fields of flocks and human homes, It comes and whispers in my ear, Then, sweeping where the shadows lie, And in its sorrow and reproof Away, the old cathedral-bell Away, -with every breath there come Away, away,-by lake and lea,- I feel it, but I cannot see. "THE BLUEBEARD CHAMBERS OF THE HEART.' MOULD upon the ceiling, Opening nevermore ; Spiders in the corners, Spiders on the shelves, Weaving frail and endless webs Back upon themselves; Weaving, ever weaving, Waken not the echo, Nor the bat that clings Waken not the echo; It will haunt your ear,— Hist! the spectres gather Gather in the dark, Where a breath has brushed away Dust from off a mark ; |